Category Archives: Catholicism

Matters relating to Catholicism in particular

Moral Obfuscation

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First thing this morning, The Deacon’s Bench called my attention to a distressing exercise in moral obfuscation.

The writer, a retired priest named Fr. Emmett Coyne (about whom I know nothing beyond what appears in his essay) takes Catholic bishops to task for their stand on moral issues. The core of his statement is that conscience trumps hierarchy, or, in other words, what I think is right and wrong is more important than what the Church says is right and wrong.

To a certain extent Fr. Coyne is correct. If my conscience tells me that something is wrong, I must not do it. However, it is also my responsibility as a Catholic to form my conscience, and the magisterial teachings of the Church are key here.

You can read the piece yourself; let me mention a couple of key points:

Bishops indeed have a task to teach and educate, but they cannot usurp the role of judge of another’s conscience. That is domain of God alone. Unfortunately, today, they are perceived as being the judge of others’ conscience, particularly as they have politicized the Eucharist. They are determining who has a right to receive or not. They have sadly undermined their role as teachers by selective unfairness. They are slow to deny Communion to politicians who favor capital punishment, support an immoral war, the inequity of income distribution, etc.

However, the Church does not teach that capital punishment is always wrong, and never has. The Church does not teach that war is always wrong, and never has. These are matters about which prudential judgements may be made, and, in fact, it is the State that is responsible for making them. Nor has the Church ever taught that income distribution must be “equitable”; rather that those who have more must help those who have less. On the other hand, the Church has always and everywhere taught that abortion is gravely wrong, intrinsically wrong. There are no prudential judgements here; it’s simply wrong. Though he doesn’t mention it, this is clearly what Coyne’s talking about, as it is only in this context that the Bishops have discussed who should and who shouldn’t receive Communion. Another misstatement: no Bishop I’m aware of has told anyone that they do not have the right to receive Communion–no one has the right to receive Communion. They have told certain public individuals that they ought not present themselves for Communion at the risk of their immortal souls.

All this said, political support for abortion certainly isn’t the only grave sin that should prevent one from receiving Communion without repentance and confession. I’m addressing Fr. Coyne’s argument, not the moral state of politicians, or anyone else, including Fr. Coyne.

The other point that really bugged me was this one:

The prayer a Catholic prays before receiving Communion is, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you.” But now a Catholic needs to pass judgment on having a well-formed conscience before proceeding to receive Communion (praying now, “Lord, I am worthy!”).

I begin to wonder what planet Fr. Coyne has been living on. It has always been a Catholic’s responsibility to make sure he is free of grave sin (by receiving the Sacrament of Confession, if necessary) before presenting himself to receive Communion. He is still not worthy, even then; the Eucharist is the “Good Gift” par excellence. None of us are ever worthy. But yes, indeed, it is a Catholic’s responsibility to attend to forming his conscience, and to be sure he is clear of grave sin. That’s what I was taught in Catechism class as a small boy, and it’s what I read in the Catechism now.

Examine your conscience. Ask forgiveness for your sins. Go to confession regularly, and more often if need be. And repent of grave sin, and do not present yourself for Communion until you have done so and been absolved. “Have mercy on me, God in your goodness.”

Heresy Doesn’t Develop

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Here’s a nifty post from a blog I’d not seen before, Army of Martyrs.

It’s a commonplace of Roman Catholic theology that doctrine develops: that as time goes by and questions arise, new doctrines arise that answer the questions while remaining consistent with what was known before. Sometimes development is simply drawing out the implications of what is stated explicitly in Scripture; other times, it’s more like discovering that Newtonian physics is a special, approximate case of Einsteinian physics: there’s more going on than we realized. But either way, developed doctrine cannot contradict what went before.

The blogger at Army of Martyrs points out that heresy does not develop in the same way: being error, you can’t build a large structure on it that will stand of its own. Interesting thought.

The Sunrise Lands, by S.M. Stirling

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The Sunrise Lands is the latest (paperback) release in Stirling’s series about “The Change”. Short synopsis, for those who came in late: one day, all high technology, from steam engines and gunpowder on up, simply ceases to work. Civilization collapses. There are mass die-offs, and all manner of horrible things. New societies begin to coalesce, and fight for survival against nature and against each other.

At the end of the previous novel, A Meeting at Corvallis, relative peace has settled in the Pacific Northwest, and our heroes (those that survived) get to take a break. Twelve years pass. The son of Juniper MacKenzie, Rudi MacKenzie, is now a grown man, and the tanist of Clan MacKenzie. His blood sister, Mathilda Arminger, remains princess and heir to the throne of the Portland Protective Association. The various states that formed in the previous three books are generally prosperous. And weird things are beginning to happen….

In short, this is the book in which we begin to get an idea–no, that’s way too strong–this is the book in which we begin to get hints about why the Change occurred…and possibly, just possibly, begin to see those who caused the Change begin to make their presence known. I won’t say more than that.

I have mixed feelings about this book. It’s very clearly the first book in a set (of three, I presume) and so there’s lots of set-up and very little payoff. A lot happens, but there’s little suspense; the plot meanders forward, but it doesn’t really build to a climax.

On the other hand, it’s a pleasant enough ride; and there’s a lot about it to like. Stirling’s post-apocalyptic world is an interesting one, and the characters are fun. And given that it is the first book in a set, and given Stirling’s past performance, I’m more than willing to cut him some slack.

I have to say, I really like the treatment of religion in this book, which is amazingly realistic. From most books written from a more or less American viewpoint, you’d think that deeply religious people are either fruitcakes or hypocrites. In this book, we have realistic people whose religion is simply part of their lives. Some, naturally, are more devout than others, but most have some form of religious practice–just as most Americans do. More than that, Stirling plays fair. He has done his homework. This book is chock full of serious Roman Catholics who act, speak, and pray like serious Roman Catholics, including one of the principles, Mathilda Arminger.

Of course there are also a great many not-terribly-serious Catholics, especially when it comes to sexual sin; but I can’t argue that that’s unrealistic either.

I do have a qualm, and a complaint. The qualm is that while Catholicism is presented realistically, the “Old Religion” is presented as true, that is, true in the context of the world Stirling is building. (I don’t mean to imply that Stirling is a neo-pagan; so far as I know, he’s a somewhat lapsed Episcopalian, or was.) Of course, it’s possible that the scenes in which the pagan gods appear to take a hand are evidence of something else….

I didn’t expect anything different, though. So that’s a minor quibble. The complaint is about a brief mention of the Dominican order. In earlier volumes, the Lord Protector of Portland has set up his own version of the Catholic Church, with a nutcase as “pope”, and his own version of the Inquisition. Now, twelve years later, the “Church” in Portland has come back into communion with the Church of Rome under Pope Benedict’s successor, Pius XXIII and the Inquisition has been abolished…and it’s said that some of the Dominicans mourn its passing. Now, whatever might be said about the Inquisition as it really was (and the Pope has formally apologized for its excesses), the Inquisition in Portland in Stirling’s books is a wholly evil endeavour, and one that the Dominicans I’ve met (mostly on-line) would have had nothing to do with, much less look back with fondness on. But it was a passing moment, no more.

Socrates Meets Descartes, by Peter Kreeft

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I picked up this book as the result of several intersecting strands of thought. First, thanks to my interest in Thomas Aquinas I’ve been delving into things philosophical. Second, I’ve become familiar with Peter Kreeft from his writings on Catholicism. Third, I’ve long held a kind of an intellectual grudge with respect to René Descartes. Descartes is generally known as the “Father of Modern Philosophy”; and the really new and radical element in his philosophy is doubt: doubt of the things that are as plain as the existence of the floor under my feet. In my view, to begin by doubting objective reality makes as much sense as having yourself hogtied before commencing a wrestling match. That many philosophers have followed Descartes down this garden path is simply proof of C.S. Lewis’ observation in The Magician’s Nephew: the trouble with trying to make yourself stupider than you are is that you very often succeed.

Consequently, I snagged this book when by chance I came across it: for I thought I might learn something, that I would be entertained, and that the author was trustworthy. On the former two points I was amply satisfied; on the latter I am satisfied as well, but with a qualification.

Kreeft’s book is a dialog between Socrates and Descartes in which Socrates cross-examines Descartes about the content of his book, the Discourse on Method. As such, it’s one of a series by Kreeft; apparently Socrates has previously met Marx, Machiavelli, and Sartres, and I gather he’s going to meet Kant in the future.

I’ve occasionally run across books in which a fictional interviewer questions great figures of the past, and they respond with bits from their written works. This is something different. The conceit is that Descartes has met Socrates in the Afterlife–in Purgatory, to be precise–and that as part of his purgation he must attempt to defend his philosophical work against Socrates’ questioning. It works quite well, for the most part, though I think that Kreeft gets a little too cute with it here and there.

But here’s the qualification I need to make: Socrates isn’t really Socrates–not Plato’s Socrates. The Socrates we know is primarily a literary conceit adopted by Plato as a way to convey his own philosophical ideas. The manner and philosophical style of the fictional Socrates is no doubt descriptive of the real man, and no doubt many of the ideas presented originated with him as well–Socrates was Plato’s teacher, after all. But just as Plato’s Socrates is Plato’s mouthpiece, so Kreeft’s Socrates is Kreeft’s mouthpiece. This book isn’t a meeting between Descartes and Socrates as Plato presented him. Kreeft’s Socrates has clearly been doing a deal of studying since he died; he’s familiar with the history of the world, both politically and intellectually, from his day to ours, and he not infrequently argues from an Aristotelian and Thomistic point of view rather than from a Platonic or even Neo-Platonic point of view.

I’ve no real problem with this; I picked up the book rather hoping that this is just what he would do. But a reader unfamiliar with Kreeft’s work would reasonably expect (given the cover blurb) to find Descartes being cross-examined by Plato’s Socrates rather than Kreeft’s. That said, it’s hard to know how any author, however pure his motives, could have achieved that; and at least the basis for Kreeft’s criticism of Descartes is right out there in plain sight.

And of what does that criticism consist? I don’t feel able to state that in any pithy or authoritative way; I’m still very much a newbie at thinking about these things. In part, though, “Socrates” shows that despite his avowed policy of “universal doubt”, Descartes actually assumes quite a bit more than he thinks he does (including the ability to reason logically) and that a certain amount of circular reasoning in involved in his attempts to safeguard reason and objective reality. Descartes comes across as a brash young man, brilliant but a little too ready to assume that the beauty of his conclusions validates the argument by which he reached them.

Pleasingly, Socrates leaves Descartes with his contemporary Blaise Pascal, with the hint that Pascal possesses what Descartes lacks. This is pleasing because, due to Julie D‘s recommendation some while back, Kreeft’s edition of Pascal’s Pensées, was in eyeshot at the
time.

Who Do You Love?

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I suppose that really ought to be “whom”, but be that as it may.

There is a significant dynamic in the Christian life. God loves us, and in order to receive that love we must pass it along to others. In fact, loving others increases our capacity for receiving God’s love; so not only must we love our neighbors as ourselves, but in loving our neighbors we are loving ourselves.

So who are our neighbors, and how do we love them?

First, there are those we know personally, and those we don’t. Those we know personally–our family, our friends, our co-workers–can be the easiest and that hardest to love. Easiest because they are right there, in front of us, and hardest because their faults are also right there in front of us. Of those we don’t, there are again two categories: those we see, and those we don’t see.

Those we don’t see are those in other towns, in other states, in other countries. These are generally quite easy to love: write a check, drop it in the mail. Say a blanket prayer for disaster victims in Myanmar. The check must represent hard-earned money, but writing and mailing it is pretty quick, and I don’t even need to leave my house. Saying a quick prayer is even easier.

The hard ones are the ones we see but don’t know: the hordes of people we see at the movie theater or the shopping mall or walking down the street. We don’t know them. We don’t know what they need. Most of them are not obviously hungry, or sick, or in need of alms-giving. There’s probably nothing they want our help with, and they’d be surprised and dismayed if we offered. (Try accosting someone at the mall, and asking them if there’s anything you can do for them. How would you react?)

How can we love them, in more than an abstract and theoretical sense? How can we let them know that it isn’t our own love we are offering, but God’s?

I can think of all sorts of things that won’t work. Is there anything that will?

The Life of Saint Dominic, by Augusta Theodosia Drane

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This life of St. Dominic was first published in 1857 in England; apparently it remains one of the best lives of St. Dominic in the English language, though it has its blind spots. In 1857, it was understood by everyone that the Rosary was given to St. Dominic by the Blessed Virgin Mary herself, and promulgated widely by him; more recent research has shown that the first mention of the Rosary in any text follows Dominic’s death by quite a long time, and that the origin of the Rosary is correspondingly more recent. There are likely other similar errors. But I gather that there aren’t that many biographies of Dominic in English; and one of the reasons, which is hinted at in the book, is that Protestant England has generally looked on Dominic without fondness.

Protestant England, as everyone knows, was frequently at war with Catholic Spain. The Elizabethans were skilled propagandists, and one of their favorite topics was the Spanish Inquisition, which consequently everyone expected. I wouldn’t want to whitewash the Inquisition, but a lot of what we English speakers think we know about it goes back to British propaganda. Now, as everyone knows, St. Dominic preached against the Albigensian heresy; and in fact the Inquisition was founded to combat the Albigensian heresy, and many of the early inquisitors were Dominicans. Dominic, in fact had nothing to do with the founding of the Inquistion (and it wasn’t the Spanish Inquisition in any event), and though there were excesses in the crusade against the Albigensians, so far as I can tell the inquisitors weren’t responsible for them. But be that as it may; Dominic was Catholic, and Spanish, and was around when the Inquisition was founded, and so, three centuries and more later, England used him as a symbol of everything she hated. Drane says remarkably little about all this, under the circumstances, but she takes some slight pains to clear the good names of St. Dominic and his early followers.

I found the book both interesting and frustrating. We are told quite a bit about the saintliness of Dominic’s life, and about his travels, and about various miracles that took place in his vicinity, all of which are interesting and about which I am glad to be informed. But Dominic founded the Order of Preachers, and I was really hoping to know just what he preached about, and how he preached it. Alas, his sermons generally weren’t preserved. Part of being a saint is the possession of the virtues in heroic measure, and that includes humility; where we know a lot about a saint’s life from the saint’s own hand, it’s generally because the saint was ordered to write about themselves by some superior. So Dominic wasn’t inclined to preserve his own words in writing, and apparently nobody else was either, alas, whether out of deference to him or out of a sort of corporate humility.

So. I enjoyed reading it; and I was left wanting much, much more.

On Reading Scripture

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Phil at Brandywine Books has a post on ways to read the Bible, and asks, “How do you read the Bible?” This reminded me of something I’d read recently that I’m trying to put into practice, and that I’ve been meaning to write about anyway.

Pope Benedict meets with many groups, and gets asked many questions. Our Sunday Visitor recently collated quite a few of these into a short book, the aptly named Questions and Answers, which was edited by Amy Welborn’s husband Michael Dubrueil. In one session, a 21-year-old chemical engineering student asks how he can read the Bible and understand it. The Pope answers that there are three ways for the believer to read the Bible, all of which are necessary. He begins,

It must first of all be said that one must not read Sacred Scripture as one reads any kind of historical book, such as, for example, Homer, Ovid, or Horace; it is necessary to truly read it as the Word of God—that is, by entering into a conversation with God…. One should not read Scripture in an academic way, but with prayer, saying to the Lord, “Help me to understand your Word, what it is you want to tell me in this passage.”

A great way to do this is the aptly named practice of lectio divina, which is a slightly more formal technique for doing the above; it involves reading the passage several times, chewing on and meditating on the words, and generally giving the Spirit the opportunity to point things out and make them plain.

So that’s the first way: to understand Scripture with the Lord, in this passage, in this moment. But what about trying to get an appreciation for the Bible as a whole, or to come to understanding of how the Old Testament relates to the New Testament? Benedict goes on,

Sacred Scripture introduces one into communion with the family of God. Thus, one should not read Sacred Scripture on one’s one. Of course, it is always important to read the Bible in a very personal way, in a personal conversation with God; but at the same time it is important to read it in the company of people with whom one can advance, letting oneself be helped by the great masters of lectio divina…. These teachers help us to understand better, and also how to interpret Sacred Scripture properly. Moreover, it is appropriate in general to read it in the company of friends who are journeying with me, who are seeking, together with me, how to live in Christ, to find what life the Word of God brings us.

In short, understanding the Bible is hard: we should rely on good teachers to bring us to understanding.

And then, the third way is read the Bible with the Church as a whole, in the Liturgy. Benedict concludes,

I think we should learn to do three things: To read it in a personal colloquium with the Lord; to read it with the guidance of teachers who have the experience of faith, who have penetrated Sacred Scripture; and to read it in the great company of the Church, in whose liturgy these events never cease to become present anew and in which the Lord speaks with us today.

I find that in my life I’m doing quite a bit of the third, through Sunday mass, and the Liturgy of the Hours every day; and quite a bit of the second, through the various books I’ve been studying, mostly recently Scott Hahn’s A Father Who Keeps His Promises (which I need to review Real Soon Now); the first I’ve been doing much less of, and I’m trying to change that.